


Perspectives

by Antheaisarealname



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: Blink And You Miss It Slash, Bruce Wayne is Not Batman, Bruce is a Billionaire Playboy Philantropist and possibly a Genius, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 22:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14090610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antheaisarealname/pseuds/Antheaisarealname
Summary: The life and times of Bruce Wayne through the eyes of Gotham's best and brightest, or why a budding relationship with the Dark Knight is not something you want to have while being on the board of directors of Arkham Asylum.





	1. Batman

Batman swooped through the dimly-lit corridors of Arkham Asylum and silently crept into the quiet hall hosting the cells of the most dangerous criminals in Gotham. Thick Plexiglas walls separated the villains from the rest of the world, and the caped hero carefully peered into the transparent prisons, looking for one inmate in particular. Doctor Jonathan Crane, aka Scarecrow, had recently been recaptured by Batman after trying to organise yet another fear attack in the heart of Gotham, with the aim of sadistically studying the reactions of the hapless citizens. The villain was dragged back to Arkham kicking and screaming by the police, but the Knight still had questions he needed answers to, especially those related to whether there were still batches of the deadly cocktail of drugs lying around the city; he wouldn’t put it past the deranged Doctor to enact his revenge even from afar.

He stopped before Scarecrow’s usual cell, a bit startled at finding it empty. Was the villain still being processed through security? He then heard voices coming from the end of the hall and followed them to the interrogation room. A bit curious to find out who decided to take up what was normally his dubious honour, he peered through the glass; a sound of surprise died in his throat at seeing billionaire philanthropist Bruce Wayne sitting before the Prince of Fear and apparently listening intently to what the animated auburn-haired man was explaining. Not wanting to startle the unpredictable villain and put Wayne’s life in jeopardy, Batman silently cracked open the door to the observatory room and slipped inside. He neared the double mirror and started to make out the words Crane was saying.

“By finally understanding the inner workings of fear and completely mastering the mechanisms behind the chemical reactions it produces in the brain, we could reach a point where we can effectively cure phobias or, alternatively, control people’s behaviours by influencing their fears. I understand that my words may sound sinister, especially if uttered in such an unfortunate place and situation, but I beg you to consider the many positive effects such a feat may have. No more speeding, as previously unconcerned citizens are now terrified beyond sanity of being stopped by the authorities and fined. That is clearly a very basic example, but it could be applied to any field of common life. A world dominated by fear is an orderly world out of necessity.”

When Crane’s excited speech came to an end, Bruce hummed pensively, as if considering his point; he then commented: “While I see what you mean, Jonathan, I cannot help but feel uneasy about what you are proposing, for two big reasons. First of all, forcing people to follow rules by making it impossible for them to disobey them, is the same as divesting them of their free will. Yes, I know that one could say the same of having a police force, but a deterrent is not the same as programming people to only do determined things. Secondly, you wanted to gas those citizens without giving them a choice, causing a wave of panic and violence that might have costed the lives of many and that is completely unacceptable. Come on Jonathan, you are better than this!”

Doctor Crane let out a low, long-suffering sigh. “Bruce, please”, he pleaded with all the reasonability he could muster. “Try to see the bigger picture and not the minuscule details the masses are so enamoured with. What is a modicum amount of free will in exchange for a safer life? Isn’t this what Monsieur Rousseau theorised, in the end? Giving up a portion of personal freedom for the protection offered by society? As of my chosen method of testing, I do lament the quite probable cost of life, but what choices are now available to me to pursue my research? Gotham University cowardly revoked my funding and status as Professor and the plebs is not really queuing for the privilege of being scared witless…”

Bruce Wayne forced a nod.

“Agreed, but if you can programme a mind to fear determined things and force it to behave safely, you could do the same to make it do despicable acts or tolerate the worst crimes. It would be a dictator’s most valued ally! Think of what such a formula would do if it fell in the wrong hands!”, he urged the Doctor. Scarecrow smirked lightly at that. “I am quite willing to confess that I did caress that thought, from time to time”, he quipped softly. Bruce hesitated, now looking a little uneasy; sensing he might have scared off his audience, Crane smiled reassuringly: “I was naturally joking. Now, where were we?”

A hand slammed on the interrogation table, making them both jump in surprise.  
“I believe”, interjected the rough voice of Batman, “that you and I were about to have a little chat regarding your stunt with the fear gas and Mr Wayne was about to go home.”  
The Doctor stared at him with wide eyes, before giving him a low growl.  
“This is a private discussion, you insolent rodent, and one that you are not welcome to join!”  
“Can it, Scarecrow.” Batman said dismissively. “Wayne, out. This is my turf, I am sure you can find some cosy bed or another to host you for the rest of the night.”

Bruce actually looked hurt by the comment and Batman had to stomp upon a budding tendril of guilt, drowning it with the irritation he felt at seeing the rich boy trying to play detective; this was a job for professionals, not pretty billionaires who thought having a heart to heart with a villain might make them all better. Still, he had to admire the flash of anger that shone in the other man’s eyes and pushed him to speak up.  
“Doctor Crane is right, we were indeed having a private discussion and such an interruption was really uncalled for. I appreciate the valuable work you do for Gotham and its citizens, but as the president of Arkham Asylum’s board I am not about to leave you alone, in the dead of night, with a restraint patient, in an interrogation room, unsupervised. If I am leaving, so are you.”

The caped crusader suppressed a grin at the daring answer – many lesser men would already be out of the building by now – and concentrated on more important business. “An interesting stance, considering you were happily conversing with a tied up deranged lunatic alone, in the dead of night, without supervision. Are all the guards away on a coffee break or was this discussion of yours better carried out alone? You seemed very interested in the possible uses of that gas…”  
Bruce Wayne’s sputtered in an almost comical way, looking as if Batman had just insulted his poor deceased parents. 

“Why… you… you… how dare you!”

Scarecrow shook his head, exasperated. “He really has terrible manners, does he not?” He wondered rhetorically, catching a still fuming Bruce’s attention. “It is quite alright if you go, Mr Wayne, I suspect I know the reason for such an untimely visit of no one’s favourite night creature. Please accept my thanks for your time, I truly enjoyed our conversation. Besides, I believe you have an early engagement tomorrow? The discussion of more funding for the extra-curricular activities of patients? On that account, if I could just…”

The billionaire shook his head as if to clear it. “Ah yes, your request for the library to include a few scientific magazines. Yes, of course, I have not forgotten, it will be brought to the attention of the board tomorrow. I should be able to update you on its status by the end of the week.”  
Crane smiled. “Capital, much appreciated Bruce. Now I must really insist you get some rest, I have already abused of your time. I wish you a good night.” Bruce nodded, wished him a good night, reached the door and held it open. At both the villain and the hero’s confused expressions, he replied with stony finality: “Five minutes.”

As soon as the man left, Batman roughly grabbed Scarecrow by his straight jacket and hoisted him up in the air, snarling at the villain’s nasty smirk. 

“Where is the rest of the gas stored?”

“How do you know there is any gas left?”, Crane wondered, though his deadpan expression made it clear that it was a rhetorical question.

“With you, there is always some other trap coiled tight, waiting to strike at the worst possible moment…”

“I think you might be confusing me with our facetious friend, the Joker…,” the Doctor observed snidely, yelping loudly when Batman slammed him into the table.

“I don’t have time for your stupid games! Where is the rest of the gas, Crane?!”

Scarecrow’s pale face stared up at him through auburn bangs that made him look like a devil crawling out of hell. “Even if there was any gas left, I would never tell you, you miserable flying rodent. Watching you run around like a headless duck is much more entertaining anyway. Who knows, if pushed far enough you might even end up here with us…”

The hero saw red. He grabbed the other man again, ready to tear him to pieces if necessary, when the door slammed open again and Bruce Wayne run inside, four guards in tow. “Time’s…” the man started, but paused almost immediately at taking in the scene before him. The guards held back, part in fear and part in genuine disinterest for the crazed ex Doctor’s fate. Not Mr Wayne though, who marched up to the caped crusader and literally plucked Scarecrow’s away from his grasp. “I believe that’s more than enough”, he coldly informed Gotham’s Knight. He guided a wheezing Jonathan to the guards and softly ordered them to bring him to the infirmary. The group left, Scarecrow giving one last smirk to Batman even through the pain. 

As the hero was about to run after him, he found his way blocked by the now frankly annoying presence of Bruce Wayne. “Do you realise what you are doing?”, he questioned him gruffly, out of real curiosity. Did the stupid man really not understand what kind of danger Gotham was into?  
“Of course I do”, the billionaire replied calmly. “I am preventing you from further harming Doctor Crane.” 

Batman gnashed his teeth together: “Listen, you spoilt, righteous brat, that lunatic has probably hidden another deposit of toxins into the city and…”

“75 Hay Avenue, the warehouse opposite the old candy factory”, Wayne quoted almost boredly, but his eyes held a certain amount of malice as Batman halted in his tracks and gaped at him. 

“What?”, was all the caped crusader could manage and Bruce calmly repeated the address: “75 Hay Avenue, that’s where the rest of the toxin is hidden.” Batman blinked, unsure whether he was being set up. “But… how…” Bruce grinned a mirthless smile. “Do you really think I am that naïve or that I do not care for Gotham? I knew there was a real possibility that more of that deadly gas was stashed somewhere, so I cut Jonathan a deal if he agreed to reveal where it was. Had I known that that was the reason for your visit, I would have stopped you and told you immediately. Why I did not suspect it immediately, I will never know, maybe I really should get some rest…”

“What was the deal?”

Bruce’s voice trailed off and his eyes did not meet the crusader’s. “I don’t…”

“What was the deal, Wayne?! I need to know if you have compromised yourself or Wayne Enterprises and…”

Bruce raised his hands in exasperation. “He wanted to talk, okay?! He wanted a genuine conversation with someone who would not automatically consider him crazy, attack him or dismiss anything he says. He used to be a Professor, he is used to having an audience drinking in his speeches, apparently he missed that… We had a long discussion before you arrived. Some of the things he says are just horrible, absolutely horrible, and the things he does even more so, but there is some part of me that… I don’t... Did you know that his grandmother…”

“I do”, Batman cut him off, because he did know and hated to think about that. Sympathising with villains was a weakness he could not afford. “He has plenty of doctors to speak to.” Bruce smiled faintly at that. “Doctors always want to interrupt you with questions”, he quoted softly. He took a hesitant step towards the hero, risking staring briefly into his eyes. “I am a very good listener”, he murmured and Batman was sure that he himself did not know what exactly he was offering. 

He pulled his cape around him and marched towards the door. “It is late, Mr Wayne”, he tossed the words at him without turning back. “Go home.”

Later in the night (or very early in the morning), Batman, having finally removed the last of the stored gas from the warehouse, finally crumbled in his own bed. The black cowl was torn off and Ra’s al Ghul breathed in the chilled air breezing in from the open window. As Batman was safely stored away, Ra’s spent a few more moments reasoning on the irritating mystery that was Bruce Wayne. A good listener. Thank god he was not much of a talker.


	2. Harvey Dent

Harvey Dent helplessly watched as Thorne, the very mob man he was sure he was going to bring down now that his role as district attorney had been confirmed, threatened to ruin his image and career. His medical files were innocently lying on his desk, the words printed upon them a real condemnation in polite society: anger issues, dissociative identity disorder, psychotherapy. If those words ever left those files or, even worse, were printed on anything resembling a newspaper, he was as good as finished. 

Thorne was smirking at him, avidly watching his eyes to catch the moment of defeat, the moment when Harvey, courteous, honest, impeccable Harvey had to sell his soul to the mob he’d sworn to destroy. The newly minted district attorney’s knuckles turned white and fingers dug into his palms hard enough to draw blood. In the meantime, Thorne was still talking. “It is pretty easy, really. I am not going to ask you to do anything unsavoury, just to conveniently turn your head the other side when circumstances require it. You can still go after petty criminals and keep your "knight in shining armour" image. All in all, I think I am offering a saintly deal. The alternative is people finding out their admired hero is a nut job more fit for a psychiatric ward than a government office. I am sure neither of us wants that. So, do we have a deal?”

Anger consumed him. It burnt Harvey like a candle, melting away all his reserves, all his guilt, all his morals, until all was left was a burning core of scalding rage, because nothing about this was as it should be. He should not be required to hide this, he should not be torn apart and ruined by something he could not control, by something that never prevented him from doing the right thing, something that did not get in the way of him doing what was best for society, always; he should not have to take the fall for trying to fix that one weakness of his, instead of being a coward and deny it until it became too late. Was that the society he sacrificed his days and most of his nights, his free time, his energy, his very own mental health for? So ready to discard him without a second thought! 

No.

A trapdoor opened, somewhere in his mind, and Harvey Dent fell through it, welcoming the respite offered by darkness. Two-Face opened his eyes and smirked grimly...

 

Back to reality, Two-Face opened his eyes and was met with the three white walls and the Plexiglas one that made up his cell in Arkham Asylum - his new home. He felt anger bubble up again and punched the wall, feeling even more frustrated when his hand bounced right back. He had been so close! He could have ended Thorne back in the factory, but that idiotic vigilante just had to make an appearance and mess everything up. Mess his face up. He stared at his reflection, a handsome face cut in half, man and monster, reason and instinct, light and darkness. Good and evil. He grinned. His former life was over, but that was no reason to despair: he had plenty of interesting plans for the new one.

The sound of feet was heard starting from the end of the hall, walking slowly down the corridor and finally stopping right before his cell. Two-Face, still sprawled on his cot, raised his head to meet the sorrowful eyes of Harvey’s old friend, Bruce Wayne. He felt the part of himself that was still Dent lurch in shame at being seen in that condition, but he easily stomped on that and offered Wayne a death stare. “Have you come to gloat?”, he barked roughly and the other man actually took a step back. “I would never”, Bruce murmured in a low, sad tone and Two-Face slightly relaxed; even he knew that there were better targets upon which to vent his rage than Bruce Wayne. He jumped to his feet and approached the Plexiglas wall, peering at the young man on the other side of it. Apparently heartened by the gesture, the billionaire took a couple of step forward and addressed him: “I would like to speak with Harvey”. The criminal felt himself smirk in pleasure at his words, delighted that someone finally deigned to recognise that he was no longer pitiful, goody-two-shoes Harvey. 

“No chance of that, sorry”, he murmured in the gruff voice that was starting to become his signature, “Dent no longer exists and trust me, it’s for the best”. Bruce winced as if physically hurt, but Two-Face mentally shrugged; the sooner the wimp understood the reality of things, the better it was for everyone involved.

“I cannot believe that”, Wayne stated, voice wanting to appear confident but betraying a note of desperation in its slight trembling; the budding supervillain offered a simple smile, his damaged face becoming all the more monstrous when changing expression: “Suit yourself”. He turned away, signalling he was finished with the conversation, and walked back to his cot, brain already hatching plans of just what he was going to do to Thorne and his lackeys once he was finally out of Arkham. He did not hear Bruce Wayne move and started to grow irritated at the fool-in-denial. He spun around and was in front of the glass again in a flat second, snarling at the man. 

“Will. You. Leave. Already?”

Bruce stood rooted on the spot; his forehead glittered with perspiration, betraying just how nervous he really was, but his eyes held Two-Face’s with quiet determination. 

“I am not giving up on you”, he informed him. “And I am not giving up on him”.

The criminal growled at that, not wanting another annoyance on his tail. “You are a fool”, he grated out. He was taken aback when Wayne smiled at him: “Maybe”, he conceded, “but I am a stubborn fool. See you soon, Harv… Two-Face”.

He turned and slowly walked away, the bent shoulders betraying just how very taxing that conversation had been for him. Two-Face watched him go, a little mystified. He quietly chuckled to himself and went back to sit on his cot; annoying he may be, but at least he was an entertaining, annoying, stubborn fool.


	3. Jervis Tetch

For the first time in almost two months, Jervis Tetch was content. He hummed to himself quietly, but sounding extra loud in the silence of his cell, and flipped another page. A flower appeared. Well, flowers really, and incredibly rude ones at that; no wonder Alice was so annoyed with them, Jervis would be too if some unknown flower suddenly felt the need to criticise his… his everything really. His being him. Come to think of it, that actually did happen to him many a time. It was not flowers doing the whispering though, which was the problem; flowers can at least be killed easily. He flinched slightly. According to good Doctor Leland, he was not supposed to have those kind of thoughts. Still, he was thinking about flowers. Surely, he was allowed to have murderous fantasies on flora, as long as Pamela did not catch wind of it. Batman was surely some kind of parasite plant, sucking fluids away from all the other innocent plants just trying to live their lives.

Jervis snapped the book shut, blue eyes staring daggers at the white wall before him. He probably should steer clear of flowers, for now; he flipped the book open again and lost himself in the endless teatime party of Mad Hatter and Alice. Alice. Alice. Alice. Alice. Alice.

“Jervis?”

The scientist jumped at hearing his name, and reflexively hid the book behind his back. He was not doing anything wrong, the book had been regularly taken out of the Asylum's library, he was most definitely not thinking of murdering flowers and Batman and Alice, he did not think about Alice at all. The explanations bubbled into his mind and threatened to spill out of his mouth, but then he caught sight of who was outside his cell and instantly relaxed: “Mr Wayne”, he breathed with relief. Then, he suddenly remembered his manners and went on: “Hello, how are you? I would offer you some tea, but I am not really allowed my own tea kit as of now…” 

He embarrassedly trailed off, mentally berating himself again for mentioning in group therapy that many infusions with tea leaves had hypnotic powers. Did they really expect him to be able to whip up some powerful mind-controlling potion with Earl Grey? He sometimes despaired of his fellow humans. Were they his fellows, though? Were they really? Was he still considered human if he came from Wonderland? Was the Mad Hatter human at all?

He realised that he’d been quiet for a long time, head lowered in thinking, and fretfully fixed his gaze back on Bruce Wayne; the man was staring at him patiently, a small, sad smile etched on his features. His eyes had a liquid quality to them and were painfully dark-rimmed, while worry lines marked the normally youthful face. Someone was not having a good day. Tea would have really come in handy. When Bruce saw that he had his attention again, his smile grew a bit wider, possibly in an effort to keep up appearances, and he replied with an almost normal tone: “I am quite well, Jervis, thank you. I just wanted to check if the book you requested was received alright and it seems it was”.

The Mad Hatter offered his former boss a Cheshire Cat grin, and held up his personal version of the bible, “Alice in Wonderland”, for his perusal. He opened his mouth with the intention of saying something, make a flippant comment, possibly a quip of some kind or inform him outright that, in light of previous events, his hunch that he was the reincarnation of the Mad Hatter was definitely correct, but words died in his throat. He never quite managed to communicate all he wanted to say, too used to being ignored or ridiculed by a world that made as much sense as Wonderland but was never any fun at all. Not for him, at least. He lowered his head in defeat and murmured a quick “thank you”.

Mr Wayne watched the display in silence, probably pitying him, probably wondering what was wrong with him, probably thinking that he deserved to be there. He had quite liked Bruce while working for Wayne Enterprises, he was the kind of boss that minded his own business, did not organise countless, pointless meetings and was very understanding. But he had also very much disliked Bruce, because he was handsome, confident, rich and women were automatically drawn to him. He was everything Jervis knew he would never be. At least he did not flaunt it. That was good, because it was what kept Jervis from hating him. Not that he minded the money much; or the good looks, all in all. He very much wanted the confidence, because confident men got the girls. Girl. There was only one he wanted. Couldn’t even get that one. Couldn’t even cut one single head. He had it all wrong though, it's the Queen who axes heads, but he is not the Queen, he is the Hatter. Maybe Batman would take some tea next time. And come to think of it again, Bruce also lost the one girl he wanted when Selina Kyle broke up with him; so, if a man such as billionaire Bruce Wayne was still unable to keep the one girl he wanted, there was hope for all of them. No, there wasn’t, which was the point. It made him feel better.

He raised his head, expecting to see Bruce gone, but he was still there, leaning against the Plexiglas wall (something which he was not supposed to do) and staring pensively at him. Maybe he was angry he ignored him. Jervis had also been ignored many times in his life and he had felt… well, not exactly anger. More like resentment, boiling slowly in his being, warmed by a low flame, until the pressure became too much and he just exploded. He wondered if Mr Wayne would be scared to see him like that. A pity his axe was confiscated as well.

“Jervis, may I ask you something?”

The question took him by surprise, he thought Bruce would be gone for sure by now. “You already did”, he blurted out and immediately covered his mouth with his hand. That was not him, Jervis Tetch would never say something so flippant, but the Mad Hatter would. The Mad Hatter did. He glanced at the other man, anticipating anger, but Bruce merely chuckled: “You are right”, he sighed. “Then may I ask you something… after the thing I have just asked you?”  
Jervis nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His former boss hesitated still, murmuring that it was just silly. The Mad Hatter interjected again: “That’s good, if its’ silly it means it’s true”. Bruce paused at that, as if considering the point. “You know, you are right”, he enunciated slowly. “It may be very silly, but it is also true for me. I think… I think I might be seeing someone I should not and that might make my life all the worse for it. Maybe it already made my life worse”. 

There was a long pause as Jervis digested that bit of information and a longer one still as he wondered what Bruce expected him to say. It then occurred to him that Wayne actually intended to say more, but the tears in his eyes and the fact he was being shaken by sobs prevented him from doing so. He would have offered him a handkerchief, but even if he’d had one there was a Plexiglas wall in the way. He merely stayed silent then and waited for the other man to calm down.

Bruce regained control of himself in record time, tears drying in less than a minute and sobs disappearing as if Jervis imagined the whole thing; he fished his own handkerchief out of his pocket, (of course he had one) and patted his cheeks dry with a self-deprecating laugh. 

“My apologies, Jervis, I did not mean to… It is just that I fear I have lost a friend today”.

The Mad Hatter nodded, avoiding looking at his face to give the man some time to regroup. “I know”, he mentioned almost casually, “I have seen the wardens drag in Mr Dent last night. Quite a chilling sight, truly”. His mouth snapped shut again, Jervis being painfully aware that that was the most he’d ever spoken in Bruce Wayne’s presence. He tried to keep it under control, but his real character kept bleeding out, probably aided by the insanity that was Arkham.

The Prince of Gotham seemed not to notice and simply nodded grimly. “I should have done more for Harvey”, he stated in a tone that admitted no discussion. “I should have been there for him when I first sensed something was wrong, I should have been able to see what was happening and lend a hand. But I did not and I did not because I was too caught up in... in this”. He made a vague gesture with his hand that was probably meant to describe the “this”. “I have met a person after Selina”, he continued. “And it felt new and intriguing and exciting, but I fear now that maybe that is all it is. I was so distracted by the novelty that I let one of my best friends slip under my radar and I might never get him back. I... I am losing sight of what is important and what is not. What if I cannot regain control? What if I let something else slide and then the avalanche hits someone else close to me? What if…”

Bruce was speaking in such a low voice now that Jervis had trouble hearing him, so he slowly got up and walked to the transparent wall, trying not to spook him and to keep following what he was saying. Halfway there though, his hesitant gait became confident and it was with a big smile that he tapped the glass near Bruce’s head. The man was startled and immediately stopped his mumbling, to stare at him with wide eyes. “What are you asking me, Bruce?”, the Mad Hatter wondered sweetly and the billionaire blinked, looking utterly confused. “You said you wanted to ask me something, so what was it?”, the creature repeated, chuckling when Wayne shook his head and murmured an uncertain: “I don’t…”

“Of course you don’t”, he interrupted him, “because you do not have anything to ask me, but something to ask of me!” The amused laugh returned, the other man still looking at him deer-in-the-headlight-like, and the Hatter decided to be less cryptical. 

“You came here, Bruce my dear, because for love’s sweet embrace you fear to lose face. Your soul, your morals, your sanity too, given up for an emotion that makes you a fool. All picturesque rhyming aside, you fear that you are about to ruin your own life running after a ghost that can never be yours. That is what moved you to give poor little Jervis a visit, to see just how bad the outcome could be”.

Bruce shook his head in denial. “No, Jervis, I swear, I would never…” The Mad Hatter gestured for him to stop, smile never dimming. “It is alright, Bruce, really. Were I in your shoes, I would also want to know what the worst-case scenario looks like. Still… Do not take this the wrong way, but I have some trouble seeing you putting on a costume and attempting to conquer the heart of your girl through a genius invention that grants you full control of the human mind. However, one thing I do know: you might not end up in the cell next to mine, Mr Wayne, but an insane passion left unchecked is enough to land the best of men in the worst of trouble, and it is just the worst of luck that such passions are so hard to control!”

Bruce shut his eyes then, massaging his head as if trying to clear it. The Hatter kept smiling at him, that wide grin that made him look like a cat who got the cream, and he leant against the Plexiglas, light blue eyes finding his. “I can help you with that, and you know it. This is why you came here today. This is the reason you do not want to say out loud. You have nothing to ask, but something you hope you might get. Not today, Mr Wayne, not today. I have no tea to offer you and seem to have lost my hat. Still, if that little flame kept annoyingly burning and you ever found your feet brining you to Wonderland again… I might be able to help”.

“Will you cut my head off?”, Bruce wondered aloud, sounding as if he was only half-joking. The Hatter’s blue eyes were so sharp they could have cut through diamond and he froze the billionaire with a polite smile. “Not a Queen, nor a Bat. I am the Hatter… once I get back my hat”. The blonde scientist gave an embarrassed chuckle and watched fondly as Bruce finally relaxed and laughed along.

“Thank you”, his former boss said, still smiling. “I am glad I stopped by to talk to you, I really needed to get this off my chest. Sorry for abusing of your time, can I make it up to you? Is there anything you require?” The Hatter sighed, somehow wistfully: “I have plenty of time on my hands, I do not mind the diversion. But, tea would be beautiful, if you could”. Bruce nodded but still lingered, prompting the blond to give him another wide grin. “Go home, Bruce, and try to get your head off things. And, should your thoughts still annoy you, come see me. I should have my hat back by then”. Bruce’s smile was a little unsure as he left, but he still promised to get him tea.

The Mad Hatter hummed delightedly and Jervis collapsed on the floor, shaking his head and trying to forget the fact that he spoke to Mr Wayne in rhymes and that he actually called him Bruce from start to finish. Still, he did not seem to mind too much and there was a part of him that felt pretty confident he would be back again to keep him company. Now, to turn his mind to more important things…

He retrieved his abandoned book and sat back on the cot, immersing himself in his favourite tea party. Ten minutes later, a warden grudgingly brought him a steaming cup of Earl Grey; outside, the wind screamed and the rain battered Arkham’s old walls. Jervis sipped his tea and sighed, content in the knowledge that all was right in his world for now.


	4. Edward Nygma

Edward Nygma, or Riddler as he liked to go by when doing business, giggled madly as he watched Gotham’s one and only Batman struggle through his new, amazing masterpiece. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls”, he intoned in a giddy tone, spinning around to face his imaginary audience. “It is with the utmost pleasure and pride that I present you Enigma Enterprises’ latest puzzle game! Prepare for a journey in a virtual reality that will have you feeling dizzy, a challenge that will test your intelligence – or lack thereof – to the extreme. I here introduce you to… the Escape Room!”

Thousands of hands suddenly appeared at his command, literally floating in the air, and started clapping, while an invisible audience cheered and whistled. Riddler bowed, gallantly removing the green bowler hat gracing his head and then raising his question mark cane as a show of thanks. “Thank you, thank you, you are too kind”, he kept repeating, basking in the warm feeling of admiration. He broke his concentration with a sigh and the hands disappeared. With a sweep of his hand, a window appeared and he studied with a smug smile Batman’s progresses in the hermetically locked room: 101 puzzles to be solved to find the key that opened the lock of the only door leading to freedom. Given time: 2 hours. Price of failure: Bruce Wayne’s life. He spied the timer on the far bottom of the screen: only 1 hour left and the smart, smart bat was halfway there, but losing ground as the puzzles increased their difficulty.

“Your protector is currently trying to solve Enigma #55”, he conversationally informed the apparently empty room. A muffed noise could be heard, if one strained their ears, and Riddler snapped his fingers with a low chuckle; what had been cunningly disguised as a 10 sides Kubrick cube suddenly crumbled and Bruce Wayne appeared, cursing as the small squares making up the structure rained on his head like confetti. “Ooops”, Nygma gasped, sounding so forced it came out as truthful, “my bad”. He approached the chair his prisoner was bound upon and raised his chin with the question mark end of his cane – he abhorred personal contact, especially with the empty-headed masses. “Are you alright?”, he enquired sweetly. “I hope those cubes did not hit you too hard. Still, there is not much of a brain to damage inside that pretty head, is there?” Wayne glared at him, but said nothing; a bright choice, in Edward’s humble opinion, as being stuck in virtual reality and antagonizing its god would be pretty stupid indeed.

“So, what do you think about my genius invention, Bruce Wayne?”, he asked, turning back to the screen still floating behind him. Batman was now struggling with Enigma #58. Definitely losing ground, if he continued in such a fashion he was not going to make it. “I don’t know”, the billionaire commented, managing to sound more irritated than scared. “I have yet to understand what this invention even is. All I know, is that I was walking to my car after leaving my office, when someone hit me on the head. When I woke up, I was tied to a chair and spent what seemed like days inside a box made up of coloured squares, with only your muffled voice to keep me company. So, I hope you will pardon me for not keeping up with current events...”

Edward Nygma laughed at the sassy reply, admiring just how collected the man was in face of danger. Not that he knew yet, of course. Time to… enlighten him. At a snap of his finger, Bruce was engulfed by a limelight and groaned, probably temporarily blinded by the brightness immediately following his sojourn in a darkened box. “You, Bruce Wayne, are the star of this game!”, Riddler informed him smugly. Bruce shook his head, tentatively opening his eyes:“Where am I?”  
Nygma’s smirk grew bigger as he gestured to the empty infinity around him. “You are in my personal virtual reality, which I lovingly dubbed the Brain Zone. While your body is actually back in your office, as I have no use for it and it would just occupy space uselessly, I have kidnapped your mind thanks to my virtual reality visors. I then created a funny little game for Batman to test his intellectual ability against - that is, the Escape Room. I have hidden 101 puzzles inside that virtual room, each linked to the prior one. If he solves all of them correctly within 2 hours, he gets the key that opens the lock to exit the room and can come save you. If he does not…”

There was a gleeful pause as Riddler drank in the anxiety on his victim’s face. “If he does not, I will detach your brain from your body and your conscience can enjoy being the guest of my virtual reality forever”. Bruce’s eyes widened and found the screen, where red numbers were still dancing madly. Edward also contemplated the timer with a smirk: “Tsk, tsk, Enigma #60 and he only has 40 minutes left. Dear me, this is going to be close, is it not? Truth be told, I doubt he will make it, the puzzles grow a bit harder to solve towards the end… Well, look on the bright side, you will spend eternity in the space created by the smartest person on Earth, no risk of growing bored!”  
Wayne’s eyes were still glued to the timer and to Batman’s pacing figure as the hero tried to figure out just how many pieces he needed to remove from the drawing on the ground in order to obtain the drawing indicated in the previous clue. Bruce shuddered and then pointedly turned away, probably to keep himself from panicking. “Why…”, he started to say.

Are you doing it? Are you so sick? Am I here, I did nothing to you? Don’t you cut me a deal, I can pay you? 

Edward counted all the possible ways Wayne could end that sentence, curious to see which one it would be.

“Why are you not marketing this?”

Riddler almost jumped: that was not at all what he was expecting. “I beg your pardon?”, he countered, buying himself time to design an appropriate reaction. “Why are you not marketing this?”, Bruce repeated, sounding even more curious. “This is a brilliant idea; the technology is amazing and the game as you designed it could earn you millions. You obviously have the funds to start your company, if you have the money to construct such a thing, so why are you not doing it?”  
Nygma bristled at the suggestion. “I am not doing this for money, I am doing this to prove that only I am intelligent and capable enough to beat the Batman!”  
Bruce digested the information. “I see. But are you going to market it once you have beaten him and killed me?”  
Riddler felt himself growing progressively irritated. “No, I am not, I am going to tear it apart so that no one can ever come close to remake it!”  
Wayne arched an eyebrow at that: “Why?”  
“Because I do not want anyone replicating my genius”, Riddler enunciated slowly, to ensure the message penetrated the billionaire’s vapid brain. Bruce observed him for a couple of seconds, before asking in an even slower tone: “So you would prefer to be known as the guy who mysteriously beat the Batman somehow, probably not even real anyway, instead of the man who invented the most sophisticated game of his time, made a fortune out of it and paved the way to a whole new generation of gaming?”  
Edward hesitated. When you put it like that… Still, he was the smartest person alive, he did not need to explain himself to some idiotic billionaire who inherited his fortune from daddy dearest. “That is correct”, he announced haughtily.  
Wayne stared at him some more and finally nodded. “Okay”, he concluded and went back to check the timer. 

Riddler, in the meantime, was fuming. “Okay? Okay?? That’s all you can say?!”, he growled, planting himself before the irritating man. Bruce shrugged, though it looked a bit ridiculous seeing as how he was bound to the chair. “I am not going to lie, I am extremely curious. You are more than likely the last conversation partner I will ever have and you are a masked supervillain with a genius IQ. You could have probably been anything you wanted, yet you decided to turn yourself to crime and created a virtual reality with the sole objective of beating Batman and killing me. I am dying to know the story, but I am not suicidal enough to antagonize what passes for a god in this world. So, if you do not wish to talk about it, I figured it’d be best I shut up…”

“Who said I do not wish to talk about it?”, the villain blurted out angrily, before being floored by Bruce’s hopeful eyes finding his, hidden behind the violet mask. “You do?”, he asked quietly and Edward pondered the situation. He held all the winning cards, Bruce Wayne was soon going to be a non-person in a non-place and this was his chance to be able to pretend he was not monologuing to himself for once. He summoned a table with an already steaming cappuccino on it and took a seat on a chair that obligingly appeared as soon as he started to sit down. “So”, he murmured teasingly, taking a sip and finding the drink done exactly as he liked it, “just how interested are you?”  
There was a flash of something in Wayne’s eyes, gone too fast to be properly identified, but then the man leaned forward. “Very, very interested”, he replied in the same tone and Edward felt like laughing, because did he really think he was being seductive or something? 

“Well then, I figure we should start from the beginning…”

He was forced to admit that Bruce Wayne conducted himself impeccably during his speech. He did not look put out when Edward started from the very beginning (his father…), listened in silence as he described the abuse he had to endure, only his disgusted face betraying what he felt, and paid attention from start to finish as he described his teenage years and his desire for revenge. However, when he started his account of his former employer firing him and his subsequent decision to turn to crime to reap his revenge, Bruce started to show signs of restlessness. Edward paused, just to give him a few seconds to regroup, but Wayne apparently took that as a sign that he could voice his opinion. “Why did you do that?”, he wondered mystified. “Your old boss was cruel and very, very stupid, but why do him a favour and ruin your own life in the process? You admitted you had resources put aside in case something like that happened, which is what allowed you to become a successful supervillain in less than a year, but why become one at all? Why not invest what you had in creating your own brand? The way that idiot guided the company, you could have easily taken it over in the same amount of time it took you to cook up your revenge. Wouldn’t that have been a better, sweeter way to…” 

A piece of fabric suddenly appeared and coiled tightly around his mouth, cutting him off mid-speech. Riddler watched him struggle impassively, lamenting for the first time that his mask prevented others from seeing his eyes; he wanted Bruce Wayne to fully appreciate the amount of anger his ignorant comments caused. When the billionaire finally stopped struggling and slumped back in his bindings, he pointed his cane at him, resting it right against his forehead. “You know, Bruce Wayne, you are a pretty good listener. You are attentive and use the right amount of expression-changing to keep a monologue going. Why ruin a good thing by opening your mouth? The opinions of an empty-headed pretty boy are worthless to the highest intelligences, the only thing they can do is-“

With snake-like rapidity, he whacked Bruce’s head with his cane once. “Making”. Twice. “Them”. Thrice. “Angry”. He gently rested the tip of his cane back on Wayne’s forehead, a far part of his mind wondering what’d it be like if he kept pushing, pushing and pushing while keeping his head in place. Something gory, no doubt. The Brain Zone was normally no place for brainless brutality, but the Brain Zone was going to be gone forever in a few minutes and none would be the wiser. He could make an experiment out of it, measure what kind of strength it took. He absent-mindedly licked his lips as he increased the pressure and Bruce winced, trying to wriggle away. He grinned widely at him, mind locked on solving that new puzzle, and the table disappeared, along with the half-drunk cappuccino. “I know this may sound a bit redundant, considering the circumstances”, he mentioned casually, locking the other man’s head in place with a thought, “but next time, just keep to your own little corner and do not open your loud mouth”.

“Funny”, a gruff voice came from behind him, “I was about to suggest you do the very same thing…” 

Riddler spun around and found himself face to face with the Batman or, rather, his fist. He was suddenly thrown to the ground with a hurting jaw, hat flung across the room and cane rolling away from him. He glared at the masked Crusader, mentally searching for an appropriate creature he could summon to do away with him. Batman took him by the lapels of his jacket and hoisted him in the air, the barbarian, and had the gall to growl at him. 

“Release us, now!” 

Riddler matched that with a roar of his own: “I will not! There is no way you could have finished the game in time, not at the rate you were going, so there is only one possible explanation! You-”, he took in a gulp of air and shouted the worst insult known to mankind, “you cheater! How did you get out, huh? Did you blast your way through the door or did you multiply like last time and took my beautiful room apart? No, don’t tell me, you probably-“

A key was shoved in his face and Edward fell silent. It was definitely the key that opened the door and, as per his programming, could only be obtained if all 101 puzzles were solved. That meant that Batman must have made it. He reeled back. “But not in time!”, he screamed. “There is no way you could have done that in time. You were only at Enigma #60 and there were only 40 minutes left. You did not finish it in time!” Batman fixed his white eyes on him, so similar to Riddler’s, and asked with a vaguely amused tone: “How do you know?”

Nygma’s gaze immediately went to the timer; the numbers had stopped dancing and were resting on zero… but, he realised with mounting desperation, he had no way of knowing if that happened before or after Batman came into the room and punched him. How long had he been observing him? When did he finish the game? He did not know, why did he not know?? He was distracted, but why was he distracted when… 

He turned his head and his eyes found Bruce Wayne. The man, still bound and gagged with a bruise now blooming on the centre of his forehead, stared back at him; there was once again a flash of something in his eyes but, again, it was gone way too soon to be analysed. "The position of the table", he murmured, but the franticness from before had left space to a chilling calm. "I placed Wayne right in front of the timer, so he could see his life’s expectancy reducing by the minute, but when sitting down I unwittingly gave my back to it. I was talking and I forgot to check it. For how long was I talking, for how-"

It was impossible to know, he realised with defeat. He was so confident in his victory and his famous attentiveness and precision that he did not even record the game or enable an additional measuring device other than the timer. He did not even programme the timer to chime when the time was up. He was just supposed to watch and carry out the execution, but got distracted. He slumped in Batman’s grasp, slacked-jaw, still gazing at Bruce Wayne. “You cheated me”, he told him, sounding as dazed as he felt. The Dark Knight laughed at that, way too pleased with the course of events for Edward’s liking. “No, I’d say he outsmarted you”, he casually mentioned and Riddler shut his eyes against that reality.

Batman let him fall to the ground and Nygma painfully picked himself up, trying to locate his bowler hat and cane to start to put himself back together. “Well?”, the rodent prompted him, “are you going to keep your word now?”  
Riddler paused; he did not want to, he really did not want to, but what choice did he have? Batman probably cheated, but there was no way to know for sure. The only other option open to him was being the cheater himself and that was not a possibility worth considering. Bruce Wayne’s binds fell away and the man gasped, gulping in apparently much-needed air. He massaged his forehead with a wince and Edward found himself venomously hoping that the bruise kept tormenting him for a long time. “Now send us back to reality!”, Batman barked. 

Riddler snapped his fingers and the virtual world started to crumble and dissolve, the simulation coming to a halt as reality regained solidity. Bruce Wayne took a step towards him and opened his mouth, as if to speak; Edward beat him to it, voice turning into a low growl: “You know, Mr Wayne, I have given your suggestion some thought and I believe you are right, I should definitely market this invention of mine. I want everyone to be able to experience the wonders of my Brain Zone!”  
As the space around them faded to white, there was a rip into the fabric of reality; Batman was sucked through before he could intervene, arms flailing madly to try and anchor himself to something. Riddler’s bowler hat and cane got caught in the whirlwind, but then deviated their course to return to their rightful owner; Edward Nygma reclaimed them with a satisfied smirk, his balance returning.

Bruce lost the fight against the mounting wind and started being dragged into the rip; he was suddenly halted by a tight grip on his arm, which would surely be leaving bruises later, and found himself face to face with a grinning Riddler, white eyes fixed on his face. “I believe you should also partake in this grand project, I am sure Wayne Enterprises will benefit greatly from the added publicity. I will be along sometime soon to discuss all options. I will just let myself in, shall I? After all, I know your office pretty well by now... Or maybe you would prefer a house-call?”

Satisfied by the horror he saw on Wayne’s face, he let the billionaire go. With a final glance to his crumbling empire, he jumped through the opening and woke up in his virtual reality chair, covered in sweat. He fastidiously removed his helmet and sat up, glancing at the now black monitor. He might have lost a battle today, due to overconfidence, but the war had not even started yet. He went to peel his mask away but thought better of it, fingers flexing nervously inside his gloves. He met the white eyes of his reflection, surrounded by the darkness of the screen, and tapped a few buttons on the keyboard, bright green letters starting to appear in the previously pristine space, marking the start of a new plan, a new world.

“Smart cookie”, he commented to no one in particular and the tapping went on well into the night.


End file.
